


promissory note

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [38]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Crying, Erotic Electrostimulation, Fellcest - Freeform, Female Ejaculation, M/M, Possessive Sex, Schrödinger's Canon, Sex Toys, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Vaginal Fingering, fanfic of fanfic of fanfic, kink as therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25900996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Red asks Edge to help him out with giving electrostim a second try. (A follow-up fic to Askellie'sPayment In Full)
Relationships: Papyrus/Sans (Undertale)
Series: ain't this the life [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/896544
Comments: 49
Kudos: 167





	promissory note

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Payment in Full](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24619015) by [Askellie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie). 



> So a while back, I wrote fellbros backstory with [Red fucking a healer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227427/chapters/54258496) to pay for treatment for Edge, but faded to black for the actual encounter aside from Red saying it was a bad time even by his fucked up standards. Then the wonderful Askellie wrote a [missing scene fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24619015) to fill in the blanks and it completely blew my mind and set that fic as canon in my heart. Upon rereading it for the billionth time, I realized that I wanted to write a current day fic based on that fic with Edge and Red experimenting with electrostim after Red had such a fucked up first experience with it. 
> 
> So this fic is Schrodinger's Canon for ATTL, basically. If past extremely-dubious-to-noncon medical play and electrostim isn't your cup of tea, this fic is skippable. It's set after the events of "in the dark", when things have had a chance to calm down and they've recovered.
> 
> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

_"What did you do to my brother?"_

_They aren't the first words Papyrus speaks upon entering Gil's house, but they're the first ones that matter. They’ve burned in his soul the last two days, eating a hole in him to make space for their fury. He means to spit them out as easily as all the banal niceties he exchanged with Gil before them, but they fall from his tongue like acid._

_When Gil looks at him, bemused, Papyrus adds, "Please."_

_Oh, the lecture Papyrus would be in for if Sans saw him trying to convince someone that pathetic excuse for politeness was in any way sincere. But Gil is stupid enough to think he's cunning, and so he smiles, clearly assuming that Papyrus is over-awed of him._

_"Why, nothing he didn't want, Papyrus," Gil says with a smile, a cruel glitter of amusement in his eyes. "Nothing he didn’t ask me for nicely.”_

_Papyrus came here planning to kill Gil. Now he's going to make sure the bastard suffers._

_"Of course, what your brother and I do in private isn't your business, champ," Gil continues, blithely unaware that he sealed his fate. "You're just gonna have to get used to that."_

_Not so private that Papyrus didn’t hear it, even in a semi-conscious haze of shock and pain where he couldn’t be sure what was real or nightmare until he saw proof in the marks Gil dared to leave on his brother. He smiles back, loathing Gil; the smile feels rusty and awkward, which Gil will hopefully take for coyness. "But I want you to do it to me."_

_Gil blinks. That caught the smug bastard off guard. The look he gives Papyrus is sharply assessing. Then he swallows the poison bait, and it turns to an expression of sly greed. He takes a step towards Papyrus; Papyrus resists the urge to drive twin bone attacks into those shining eyes. Not yet._

_"Well, now," Gil croons._

_His hand comes to rest on Papyrus's face. The plan was to strike Gil down if he dared to lay a finger on him, but Papyrus abides. They're still in Gil's living room, clearly visible through windows Gil was too arrogant to board up. Too assured that his healing abilities made him untouchable. The fool._

_"You're not so young as I thought," Gil muses, his thumb stroking over Papyrus's cheekbone. "Does your brother know you're here?"_

_"He doesn't know," Papyrus says. "He's busy."_

_Gil clicks his tongue. "Too busy to give you the attention you deserve. I should've expected you'd be jealous."_

_"Yes," Papyrus lies, struggling with the urge to punch Gil’s teeth down his throat. "I saw the bruises you left. They were... interesting."_

_Startled, Gil laughs, a merry sound. Delighted. "Oh, listen to you! All the work Sans put into keeping you spotless, but you're a perverse little thing, aren't you?"_

_Strange to think of himself as spotless, considering the terrible things he’s done and seen. But two days ago, he found out what Sans let filth like Gil do to him to keep them both fed. He saw the stricken, furious look on Sans’s face when Papyrus angrily suggested that he could do the same. Sans tried to protect him from this, if nothing else, and look where it’s gotten them._

_There is a collar sitting on Gil’s desk, coiled like a glittering snake. Papyrus doesn’t know if it’s even meant for his brother; Sans is hardly the rhinestones type, to be dolled up like a pampered housecat in one of Mettaton’s dramas. But that’s probably the point, the indignity of it, trying to make Sans something less than what he is. To make him meek and compliant. Tame._

_"I could be," Papyrus says, trying for coquettish, missing by a mile, and simply sounding out of his depth. He leans into it, widening his eyes and turning his face into Gil’s palm. His nerves crawl with disgust at the oily feel of Gil’s scales. But Sans withstood much, much worse than this for Papyrus’s sake, and so Papyrus lets Gil fondle his cheekbone without protest or reprisal. He adds, hoping Gil will mistake the hunger in his eyes for simple lust instead of LV, "Show me what you did to him."_

_If anything, Gil looks more pleased. He takes a step closer, invading Papyrus's space. He smells sickly sweet and faintly metallic. "I don’t kiss and tell, sweet. But we can have our own fun. Come upstairs with me and I’ll teach you things he never could."_

_"Can I have some painkillers?" Papyrus asks as they move towards the stairs, trying to sound like a creature utterly without guile or survival instincts. His limp is not entirely feigned. "Afterwards? My spine is hurting from the walk."_

_"Of course," Gil breathes. "I can give you everything you ever wanted."_

_When Papyrus smiles, it's real. "I’m sure you will."_

_Gil never does tell him any details. Papyrus shouldn’t have expected otherwise. Sans has always been very clear that torture is for retribution, not for trying to gather useful information. Papyrus will have to live without knowing the exact price Sans paid for his sake. Maybe he’ll sleep easier that way. He doubts it._

_Before he leaves, he tosses that glittering collar into the wildly spreading flames around Gil’s makeshift pyre. He lingers just long enough to be sure it burns._

***

The idea lurks at the corners of Red's skull for months before he finally manages to spit it out.

Even when he does, he picks his approach carefully. Waits for a night when Sans isn't around. Flops down on the other end of the couch, earning himself an annoyed grunt from Edge as it shifts beneath Red’s sudden weight. 

Edge looks up from his endless paperwork fetish, brow raised expectantly. Red gives him two raised brows in return, the universal expression for _what's your fucking problem?_ Edge lets it go with just an eyeroll and turns back to his work.

Red pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through some article Fern the museum human emailed him, although he can't focus worth a damn. Mostly it’s a decoy as he waits until he's sure Edge is distracted by his work again.

"Hey, boss," Red says, still scrolling as he watches the meaningless words roll past. His hands are sweating. "I was thinking."

All Red's careful work unravels in a second. Edge gives him a sharp, wary look like he thinks Red is going to suggest a bit of casual regicide. Red has his full attention. Fuck. Edge asks, "Yes?"

"Don’t get all weird, it ain't that big a deal." Red goes back to his phone. His grin skews, and he adds, "It's like you don't trust me or something."

There. That oughta distract him. They can growl and snap at each other, have the same stupid argument they’ve had a billion times, and retreat to their seperate corners so Red can try again later.

"I trust you with my life," Edge says. It's so blunt and so unapologetic that Red flinches inside, reflexively tensing up to fight or bolt. If Edge tries to touch him, he's not sure which he'll choose. But Edge doesn't. Wryly, he adds, "But you wouldn't want me to trust you so blindly I don’t ask questions. You taught me better than that."

Red certainly tried to. Still staring at his phone, he says with careful carelessness, "Heh. Maybe so."

"So," Edge says. "I would like to know what, exactly, you were thinking."

"Can't have everything you want," Red says as he keeps scrolling idly. 

"I'm aware," Edge says, witheringly dry. Fair enough, considering Red is usually the one keeping what Edge wants just out of reach. "You hit the end of the page almost a minute ago. I believe you can stop scrolling."

Embarrassingly enough, he's right. Red's off his fucking game tonight. He'd call it and try again later, but he knows Edge. His brother's not stupid, stubborn fondness for Red aside; he knows something's up, and he's not gonna leave it alone now. 

With a shrug, Red tosses his phone onto the couch between them. "Doesn't matter much. But since you're all wound up about it, it's a sex thing, not a murder thing."

That makes Edge relax just a little. He still looks justifiably wary, but intrigued. "What kind of sex thing?"

Red grins at him. "The fun kind, if you do it right."

Weirdly, the tweak to Edge’s ego makes the last bit of tension leave him, and he settles back against the arm of the couch. With an arched brow, Edge says, "I rarely hear complaints. Plotting behind Sans's back again, are we?"

"Nah," Red says. "This ain't his kinda thing. It'd be just me and you."

Edge tilts his head ever so slightly to one side, considering Red. There's that glint in his eyes that he gets sometimes when he's got Red's throat in his grip, all pretty and mean. "Tell me more."

Now they're getting down to the raw nerve of the issue. Red forces himself not to break eye contact and to keep grinning easily. "You and Papyrus went to one of those kink classes. Brought home worksheets and everything. The one with, uh, electric stuff?"

Fuck, he stumbled on the dismount there and Edge definitely noticed. His eyes widen just a little at the word ‘electric’, vulnerable and strangely guilty, and then narrow. He's watching Red even closer now, and Red can feel the first traitorous trickle of sweat down the inside of his ribs.

"I remember," Edge says slowly. The look in his eyes is complicated. “I was wondering why that particular worksheet went missing.”

Yeah, because it’s folded up and buried safely under Red’s mattress for the times he takes it out and rereads the handout yet again in an agony of prickly cold sweat and feverish arousal. 

Which is funny, because Edge had hidden it too, snuck it home in a stack of his paperwork like a kid with a contraband nudie magazine. Red wasn’t supposed to find it. Never would have, if Fang hadn’t knocked the papers to the floor while Edge was in the kitchen getting coffee.

“What, you got a binder full of old handouts or something?” Red drawls, trying to sound amused. “You fucking nerd.”

“The interesting ones,” Edge says. “I wouldn’t want you to get bored.”

Hilarious. Like Red could ever get bored of him. Maybe his snort seems less directed at Edge’s kink geekery than he intended, because Edge looks a little smug. Red’s nerves prickle an old warning, telling him to be more fucking careful, but he’s so close to getting what he wants that he can taste it. Maybe some (honest) flattery is okay, just this once.

Red gives a diffident shrug. Look how very much he doesn’t care. “Whatever. Could be fun, maybe.”

Edge studies him, intent as a judge. Understandable, considering that Red doesn’t usually just _ask_ Edge for things this way. He demands, or he pushes, or he lets Edge decide what to do to him so long as it stays within certain acceptable limits of softness. If Red wanted to convince him that this was nothing out of the ordinary, he should’ve just climbed on Edge’s lap and outright told him to get some new toys for them to play with. But this is different. 

It’s not like Red has some horrible trauma re: his whoring days. He has a lot of shit he regrets, but sucking some dick doesn’t even factor. Sometimes he even enjoyed it. Hell of a way to learn that he likes pain, 16 and stupid with a john’s hands around his throat ticking away precious points of his HP as they fucked him raw with a strap-on, but back home he had to take what fun he could get.

But the Gil thing. Sometimes when Red is jerking it, he still thinks about those blinding jolts of electricity inside his cunt, wringing unexpected pleasure out of him. It had been too good not to remember. But the helpless agony of what came next and the horror of Edge downstairs wounded and alone got tangled up in his head with the parts that he managed to enjoy. Edge could replace it with something simpler.

And for a moment, he thinks Edge sees right through him. Which is ridiculous. Edge couldn’t know what happened; he’d been passed out cold. Sure, Red had broken down and screamed in the end, but even if that had reached Edge in his shocky haze, there’s no way he could have pieced together what exactly Gil had done.

(Probably. At the very least Edge could know that Gil had electricity magic. From there, it’s not hard to put two and two together. Might explain why Edge hid that handout, like he was ashamed of his interest but too fascinated to leave it be. That’d make two of them.)

Red feels his sins crawling on his back. It’s a whole lot of sins per square inch. Amazing that there’s room for them to crawl at all; he’d have thought that it was standing room only.

Shit. He clearly needs to spend less time around Sans, because the tortured metaphors are contagious.

Finally, Edge says, “We could try it, if you’d like. Do you have anything particular in mind?”

“Heh.” Funny how knowing that they’re actually going to do this makes some of Red’s nervous tension ease and the rest of it winch even tighter in anticipation. He picks his phone back up, signaling an end to the discussion, and tells his brother, “You’re the boss, boss. Surprise me.”

***

Thankfully, Edge doesn’t make him wait long.

Three days of Red jittering with nerves. No mysterious packages come to their house. Probably smart, because Red’s not sure he could’ve resisted the urge to peek. He wants whatever Edge is planning to take him off-guard. He doesn’t want to be in control; that’s not the point of this.

(Okay, so maybe he oughta tell Edge what the point of this actually is. But he can’t force the words past his teeth. Edge hates that Red turned tricks to keep him alive. Long before they were fucking, Edge killed Gil for leaving bruises and daring to offer Red a collar. Telling Edge that Gil hurt him and that he’d gotten off on it, up to a point? That’d just be twisting the knife. Red’s trying to cut back on his knife-twisting these days, at least when it’s Edge or Sans or Papyrus.)

Three long days of wondering, and now this. Mid-afternoon on a Saturday, Edge’s bedroom, an array of toys ranging from cheesy to clinical spread out across the end of the bed at Red’s feet. 

“Wow,” Red says inanely, trying to figure out how exactly he feels about this. Around the time that Edge ordered him to strip, the nervousness gave way to wary excitement and then (as Edge ominously laid out the toys one by one) a mental blankness that could be good or bad. “Got a little carried away, doncha think?”

Without looking up from arranging the toys to anal-retentive perfection, Edge says, “I wasn’t sure what you’d need.”

Stung, Red says, “I don’t need--”

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” Edge says smoothly. “Seeing as we haven’t done this before, it seemed better to prepare for everything.”

Did Edge put a subtle emphasis on _we_ , or is Red being paranoid? Hard to tell. Red tries to recover with a sneer. “You and your backup plans.”

“Considering that you’ve never met a plan you didn’t douse in gasoline and light on fire, I had to learn to compensate,” Edge says. 

“Seems to me I’m the only one around here who doesn’t light shit on fire as a first resort,” Red says. 

Which brushes dangerously close to Gil territory, seeing as that was Edge’s main foray into the fun of arson. Edge leaves it be. Instead he curls his fingers around Red’s ankle, mimicking a cuff. Mildly, he says, “Can you be still, or should I restrain you?”

Red’s usually all about the restraints, but the thought of being unable to get away while they do this makes his soul clench uneasily. Stupid. Their cuffs have a quick release and Edge would be on it in a second if Red started to freak out. 

He offers Edge a smirk and croons, “I’ll be good.”

“I doubt it.” Edge lets Red go. “Probably for the best. I wouldn’t know what to do with you, aside from check for a head injury.”

Amused despite himself, Red snorts. For a fleeting moment, Edge gets that faint shadow of a smile, and then it’s gone and he’s all business. He runs his fingers over his shiny new toys, considering, before picking up a deceptively harmless-looking little gray box. Any relief/disappointment Red feels dies in its cradle; the box looks distinctly more ominous when Edge pulls on a weird glove with metal pads on the fingertips, straps the box to his wrist, and starts attaching leads.

Edge’s magic is all bones and gravity, not electricity. Not like Gil’s. But of course Edge would figure out a way to make the pain and pleasure come directly from his hands.

As Red watches Edge prep with painstaking care, he asks to distract himself from his increasing nerves, “Didja make that?”

“No,” Edge says with a brief glance up at him. He slows down, the bastard, letting Red sweat. “It was an engineer at the local university who has certain shared interests. Another monster. They seemed to welcome the intellectual challenge.”

“Just making sure you’re not gonna fry me,” Red says.

Edge scoffs at the very idea that he’d be anything less than painstakingly, paranoidly careful. “I already tested it out on myself. Thoroughly.”

Interested, Red asks, “Really? How thoroughly are we talking here, boss?”

“Surely you don’t need me to define the word for you,” Edge says.

Fuck, now there’s a pretty mental image. Red’s sorry he missed that. That’s what he gets for letting Papyrus tempt him out of the house for the premiere of Jersey City Boys: the Next Generation.

Idly, Red runs a hand across his naked ribs. Thumbs his sternum, a little rough, the way he likes Edge to do it. Edge slows even further in his pre-kink preparation, watching Red touch himself, and Red grins wider. 

“C’mon,” Red coaxes. “Gimme some details here. It’d just be cruel otherwise.”

“You like it when I’m cruel,” Edge says.

Apparently he’s finally done fucking around, because he abandons his other toys and comes to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. Red helpfully shifts to give him easier access, one leg drawn up and bent, and Edge gives a softer (fonder) scoff at his eagerness.

When Edge lays his gloved hand on Red’s ribs, the metal fingertips are colder than Red expected. His breath hitches; he grabs Edge’s arm before he can pull away and tells him, “It’s cold, that’s all. Feels like getting fingered by Sansy.”

Relaxing, Edge says, “If he was here, I’m sure he would have an obnoxious pun for the occasion. Something about sparks flying, no doubt.”

“Probably,” Red agrees. Edge’s fingers skate along his ribs, metal clicking softly against bone like an abacus. Red pushes impatiently into Edge’s hand. “You trying to make me sleepy or--”

It’s been six years since Red’s felt the tingle of electricity skate across his bones, but he’s thought about it so often it’s familiar as a lover’s touch. Red can barely feel it, just a prickly caress in the wake of Edge’s fingertips. Edge must’ve used magic to nudge some button on the remote. Cheating. Red approves.

“Is that acceptable?” Edge asks, like a solicitous host asking if Red wants his wine topped off. 

“I dunno, you’re the one steering,” Red says. Edge just looks at him, unimpressed. It’s gonna be like _this_ tonight, apparently, because Red might not have told Edge what the point of this was but damned if Edge can’t smell blood in the water. Red sighs, grudgingly accepting the inevitable. If he wants his way, he’s gonna have to ask for it. “Turn it up a couple notches.” 

The electricity amps up a little, the prickly heat rising without crossing the line into actual discomfort. When Edge’s hand moves to his spine, Red feels the magic between his vertebrae tensing and relaxing under Edge’s touch without his consent or participation. The uneasy helplessness of it, like Edge is playing him like an instrument, makes Red’s breath shudder out slow. He can feel his magic heating up, glowing brighter in his joints, the first fine mist of it in his pelvis.

“More?” Edge asks, and there’s nothing mild about the look in his eyes. He’s into this in a complicated, intense kinda way, the same way Edge is into Sans treating him softly even though he’s had it drummed into his head his entire life that gentle = dangerous. That makes it easier, somehow, that this isn’t something he’s doing just to placate Red.

“Yeah,” Red says hoarsely. He should probably be running his mouth, but fuck, he can’t concentrate.

The intensity spikes, and Red grunts. Now _there’s_ the discomfort. The prickle starts to actually sting. His spine jerks beneath Edge’s hand, sharp tension and sudden release. He can’t tell if the metal pads on Edge’s fingertips are getting warmer or it’s just that his startled nervous system is giving him some endorphins to soften the blow.

“Hurts?” Edge asks, his eyelights keen with both concern and fascination. 

“Not yet. Alm--” Another pulse hits Red, cutting him off as his lumbar spine tenses and the rest of him shudders hard in sympathy. “Almost. Keep going. _Fuck_.”

Edge, bless his sadistic little heart, bumps it up another notch. It still isn’t quite true pain, but every jolt leaves his spine feeling like it should glow with feverish heat. Red shifts restlessly, heel slipping across the sheets as he tries to find purchase, and yowls a curse as Edge curls long fingers around his spine and grips him tight like Edge is trying to press those bright stinging pulses of electricity directly into the core of him. His body strains towards Edge or away or both, and goes slack in the aftermath, his spine throbbing with heat that echoes in his pubic symphysis. 

“Fuck,” Red repeats, softer, his voice already shredded and breathy. Another pulse, and his spine bows; he’d arch off the bed if Edge wasn’t holding him. His toes curl. “Oh--”

( _I know you want this, my sweet,_ whispers Gil in his memory, and that should probably dull the ache between Red’s legs but it doesn’t. Red’s body has never really cared what it’s supposed to get off on. A mixed blessing, but that’s the only kind of blessing Red ever got.)

Edge’s ungloved hand comes to rest on Red’s hip, thumb sweeping over his iliac crest. Roughly, Edge says, “You’re already soaked.” 

For a moment Red thinks he might’ve pulled a Sans and formed a pussy without meaning to, but no, he can feel that the back of his ribcage is wet and getting wetter. Good thing Edge thought to lay down the waterproof throw because Red’s soul is dripping eager slick. That didn’t happen with Gil, that’s for fucking sure. It’s all for Edge, and the sheer spiteful joy of that makes Red laugh. 

Edge raises a brow, bemused. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Red says. The word comes out in two parts, nuh and then _thing_ punched out of him when Edge hits him with another pulse of electricity. Edge smirks, and Red tells him, half-laughing, “You asshole.”

“I can’t imagine where I got it,” Edge says. 

His grip eases on Red’s spine (unfortunate) and he begins inching his way down towards Red’s pelvis (more fortunate). The lower he goes, the more sensitive it is. A little more of this and Red _is_ gonna lose control and form something for Edge to touch. Magic seethes in the cradle of his pelvis. That happened easier than he expected. His breathing deepens and gets rougher as Edge approaches his sacrum, but Edge stops just short, his fingertips dipping into the angrily pink haze of diffuse magic.

“Boss,” Red complains. Every time his spine contracts, he ends up grinding his tailbone against the sheets, and his coccyx is throbbing just as hard as his pubic symphysis. 

Edge gives a noncommittal hum, looking at him like he’s food Sans offered to Edge all pretty and sweet. His fingertips finally, mercifully coast onto Red’s sacral plain, and Red braces himself. The first electric jolt makes Red inhale sharply to curse or cry out before he realizes that it’s not as bad as he expected. It stings like a motherfucker, yeah, leaving behind an oversensitive heat like a sunburn, but he can take it easily.

Red lets his head drop back, yearning up into Edge’s hand. Edge keeps petting him, so slow and easy that Red would feel obligated to snarl at him for it any other time. Edge’s fingertips flirt with the entrance of Red’s top set of foramen, and Red’s breath jerks out in a near-sob as the electricity sears across rarely touched bone. 

“Good?” Edge asks, testing the next set of foramen. He slips deeper that time, his fingertips warm points of metal resting inside Red.

“Turn it up,” Red breathes.

Edge does. Another jolt, the snap-burn of it making his eyelights fizzle out and his body jerk. It hurts a lot more the second time, the pain building on itself until his fucked-up body interprets it as just pure sensory input, not good, not bad. Edge keeps his HP steady with such care that Red could get high on his intent, soaking in it like he’s Sans’s collar. Red’s head is swimming. When he can breathe again, he groans.

Edge’s ungloved fingers find Red’s ischium, thumb gently brushing over the tender cartilage between them in a way that crosses all Red’s wires between pleasure and pain even more than they were to start with. Red arches into it, the hand that hurt him and the one promising to touch him sweetly, because it’s all Edge. It doesn’t matter.

Every touch radiating how much he loves ( _Red_ ) this, Edge says, “Do you want more?”

He’s pulling Red’s usual trick re: Sans, making him complicit, making sure Red is with him. He’s not asking Red to beg. 

( _“If you want it out so badly then beg me, sweets.”_ ) 

Gil’s voice crosses through his mind like clouds over the stars. Red shakes his head, trying to clear it. Feels Edge hesitate, uncertain, and he stumbles through words to try to fix it. “No, s’okay, I’m good for it.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Edge says. 

The pad of his thumb is still resting on Red’s symphysis, and he strokes it in slow, devastating circles. It’s a cheap attempt to derail Red. It works. He shudders, drawing his leg up tighter to his body, giving Edge better access to his pelvis. Edge seems to approve. 

Change of plans; Red wanted nothing more than for Edge to keep shocking him a second ago, but Edge’s fingers on his symphysis have him craving something else. They’ve gotta move this along before he comes from a little bone-fondling. Shakily, he asks, “So c’n you finger me with those or what?”

Edge almost cracks a smile. “Eloquent as ever, brother. Yes, they’re water resistant.”

He looks so frigging pleased with himself. Red feels a twinge of something treacherously soft. He’ll blame it on the endorphins swimming through him. He bumps Edge with his bent knee. “Move your fucking hand and I’ll make you something you can use.”

“I’ve been using you just fine,” Edge says. 

He removes his fingertips from Red’s foramen; the metal electrodes bump against hot, oversensitive bone on the way out, and Red jerks. Thoughtfully, Edge touches the opening to one of Red’s abused foramen and slowly circles it, watching Red’s face, drinking in his expression. It hurts a surprising amount for such a delicate touch. Red’s head drops back to the pillow like he can’t hold it up, his spine gone to water.

“You’re going to hurt like hell after this,” Edge says, exploring the damage he wrought like he could do this all night. Just stroke the stinging marks he left, so very lightly, until Red breaks and comes in self-defense. “Worse than the flogger, I think.”

“Promises, promises,” Red says. He feels a little stoned. “Put your fingers in me.”

With clear reluctance, Edge takes his hand out of Red’s pelvis, giving him space to finally form a pussy. The relief makes Red shudder. 

Edge takes a moment to enjoy the view, his eyelights bright and hungry. Then he grabs a tube of some kind of weird lube from the end of the bed. There’s a lightning bolt on the package, which probably means it’s made special for shit like this. Normally Edge would explain whether Red wanted to hear it or not. This time he just liberally anoints his fingers and the glove in meditative silence, and then runs his fingertips along Red’s slit, smearing it with the lube despite the fact that Red’s already pretty damned wet. If using fancy lube makes Edge more likely to fingerfuck him, whatever. Extra lube never hurt anybody, and Red would prefer to skip getting actual burns on his junk if possible. Been there, done that, liked the first part of the ride but didn’t enjoy the aftermath.

Besides, it’s not exactly a hardship to have Edge oiling him up like he’s a pair of well-loved boots. The metal pads glide easily; the implicit threat of another shock on his achingly sensitive magic is heady as fuck, bringing Red’s breaths fast and shallow with excitement. He spreads his legs a little more, encouraging. 

Finally, Edge’s fingers ease into him, two at once. Edge has fingered him with gloves on before, and the fabric of these are slicker than the usual leather, but the electrodes make it strange and slightly unwieldy with an unexpected stretch. Edge takes it slow, and Red instinctively lifts his hips to get him deeper. There's something reassuringly familiar about the way Edge’s fingers effortlessly reach the perfect spot behind his pubic bone. It’s like Red’s cunt was made to fit him. Like Red is just that thoroughly his.

“Shit,” Red rasps. His body throbs like a burn as Edge crooks his fingers in a come hither gesture. Emphasis on the come. He feels both like he could go off like a firework if Edge so much as brushes his clit and like he could ride this high forever, too fucked up to get off. His breath shudders out, and he grins unsteadily. “Don't go easy on me.”

Edge doesn’t.

The electricity feels different inside. Not sharp and burning, but a slow, intense wave that rolls through his magic and is echoed in his soul. His femurs tense so hard they tremble; his cunt tightens reflexively around Edge's fingers like he's already coming. Edge takes the opportunity to curl his fingers, pressing the charge right into him, letting him shake on the cusp of it for a long, long moment before finally releasing him. When it's over, Red is panting, desperate and stupidly close.

"Oh," Red says, not quite coherently, his skull ringing like he just got slapped. He grinds into Edge's hand, riding his fingers a little. "Yeah, that, keep--" 

Another wracking wave that's just shy of pain. He loses his breath in a punched-out noise like _hngh_ , back arching. It releases him, and he goes slack. His cunt is throbbing in time with his sore foramen, still fluttering helplessly around Edge even after the electricity lets him go. 

Edge watches him like he's the most fascinating wreck in the world, his face flushed and his eyes hot. His fingers keep rubbing Red's g-spot, waves of pressure and release that have nothing to do with the machine. 

"Fuck," Red says, stunned. "It's..."

Good. It's so good, even if it's different than what he guiltily jerked off to for years. Makes sense; Edge's approach couldn't be different, not brute force but terrible precision. Red's his most dangerous weapon, his favorite toy, _his_ , and Edge won't risk breaking something that's served him so well.

(Easier to think of it that way. Doesn't involve messy emotions. But there's nothing so cold about the real reason Edge uses him with such care, and they both know it.)

The electricity licks into Red again, a longer, harder wave of pleasure so intense it hurts. Red's ribs flex erratically as he struggles, unable to gasp for air. There are dark spots in the corner of his vision when Edge finally lets up, like little holes in the world. He's going to come; he's already most of the way there. Feels like he'll die without it. 

Red grabs at Edge's shoulder, digging his fingers in to brace himself. Edge can take it. Almost inaudible, Red whispers, "Don't stop."

Edge hears him. Another pulse, harder this time, not so much flirting with pain as fucking it in the middle of the street. With a strangled sound, Red comes around Edge’s fingers, his body trying to wring itself out as his cunt contracts and relaxes in long, sweet pulses. Edge purrs his approval, ruthlessly drawing the pleasure out with his fingers and steady little licks of more electricity. His free hand pushes Red’s hip flat, keeping him both grounded and unable to do anything but take it. 

The second crest of what could be the first orgasm or just another one right on its heels catches Red by surprise. His eyelights gutter out, he shudders like he’s seizing, and he drenches Edge’s fingers with a gush of slippery, enthusiastic wetness. His groan is low and wrecked.

“Fuck,” Edge murmurs as if to himself, shakily. His fingers slow but don’t stop, not letting Red rest, coaxing him to keep giving everything up to him. It’s hard for Red to tell if he’s even stopped coming yet, with his cunt still clenching helplessly and the pleasure still wracking him. 

Edge nudges Red’s bent knee with a shoulder, opening him a little further. It’s Red’s only warning before Edge’s tongue is on his clit. He yelps, hips rudely hitching against Edge’s face, his only words garbled versions of _yeah_ , and Edge pins him down and keeps going. The only reason Red knows he’s not coming anymore isn’t because the pleasure finally plateaus; it’s because the overstimulation kicks in, piling on top of him until he can’t breathe except in tortured whines. He claws at Edge's back, lights swimming in the corner of his vision.

Edge lifts his head, his mouth smeared with red and a feverish light in his eyes. His fingers (and the devastating pulses of electricity) pause, but he doesn’t pull out as he asks, “Can I--?”

The question finally jars actual words loose, and Red gasps, “Fuck me.”

Must be a truly pathetic display, because there’s a brief, dangerous flicker of softness in Edge’s eyes. Fuck it, Red’ll let it ride just this once. He does what he’s best at: he makes it worse. Tugging at Edge’s shirt, he adds just in case Edge thought that wasn’t a demand, “I need it.”

Critical hit. Edge’s eyelights sharpen with a darker hunger, drowning out that moment of sweetness. Gently, he withdraws his fingers. Even as fucked up as Red is, he’s a little impressed by how easy it goes; the glove is well-made and the electrodes stay on Edge’s fingertips like they’re glued there despite being absolutely drenched from Red’s cunt.

Clumsily, Red starts to roll over. Edge helps, bracing his hips with both hands, steadying Red on his shaky knees. Red can barely hold himself upright. His sacrum hurts when he moves wrong, bright jolts of pain like he’s still being shocked, but he pushes past it. He doesn’t even care if he comes. He just wants to feel Edge using him, familiar and possessive. He wants Edge to get what he needs from this.

The mattress dips beneath Edge’s weight as he settles behind Red. The hard line of his cock brushes the inside of Red’s femur, and Red grinds back onto it. Only succeeds in rubbing his wet cunt against it, frustrating them both. Edge huffs a breath through his teeth like he got kicked in the ribs, palming Red’s hip with one hand and guiding his dick to Red’s pussy with the other.

When he pushes in with one long stroke, Red’s knees almost give out. Everything aches, oversensitized by the electrostim. It’s not pain, exactly; it’s like he has a righteous full-body high. Edge feels so deep that Red could choke on him. Edge’s hips twitch forward, a traitorous little motion that says he’s struggling to keep control of the urge to just use Red like a fucktoy.

Gracelessly, Red rocks back on Edge’s dick as much as Edge’s grip on his hips will let him, a delicious hint of friction that’s not enough. Edge lets him fuck himself a little, maybe out of indulgence or sadism or maybe because he just likes it; Edge’s breathing is a heavy rasp, his hands shaking on Red’s hips. 

“Please,” Red says, the word flowing off his tongue like honey. So easy. So painless. He can hand Edge his pride like a weapon to finish him off with, because Edge would never use it. “Fuck, Paps, _please_...”

“Hush,” Edge murmurs, like Red didn’t just feel his fucking dick twitch. He braces himself over Red, a shield between him and the world. His soft shirt rubs wickedly against the back of Red’s sacrum, and Red heaves in a wet, convulsive breath. Edge’s hand curls around his throat. A brief squeeze, more reassurance than warning. “I have you.”

The first time Edge draws out and then so easily slides back in with a shuddering breath, it becomes very fucking clear that Red’s going to get off on this after all. His whole body throbs a warning, his pussy clutching tight at Edge on the withdrawal, and Edge makes a guttural noise that says he won’t be far behind. 

“I have you,” Edge says again as he fucks him, the words muttered like a prayer.

His thumb rubs against the buckle of the collar, and then he lets go. Red manages a strangled protest that dies as Edge reaches between his trembling legs. The cool metal of the glove feels amazing against Red’s clit. His broken cry is muffled into the sheets. He grinds weakly against Edge’s hand and back into his dick, trying to help even though Edge definitely has this handled.

Edge circles Red’s clit with less precision than usual. Maybe the glove is throwing him off, or maybe Red’s just shaking too hard. It’s too good; he feels like he’s going to break under the weight of it. Voice low and rough, Edge asks, “Do you want…”

It takes Red a couple seconds to parse what he means, because his body language is screaming _do what you want with me_ at Edge so loudly they could hear it across town. And then he pushes back into his brother, managing a slurred, frantic, “Yeah, fuck, yeah, pl--”

And Edge gives it to him. The snap of electricity against his clit is relatively gentle, Red thinks later, but the shock of it wrenches the orgasm right out of him, violently, helplessly. His own voice rings in his skull, a ragged wail barely muffled into the mattress. 

The sudden wild clutch of his body seems to be too much for Edge, because he makes a guttural sound and gives him several more thrusts that are rough and without his usual control before sinking so deep in him that Red gives a watery gasp of appreciation. The familiar bloom of heat inside him as Edge comes is proof of a job well-done, permission to finally black out for a little while, and Red takes it.

Time passes. Maybe a couple minutes. When Red drags himself back to his body, the sweat hasn’t cooled on his bones yet. At some point Edge rolled him over and cleaned up most of the mess between his thighs. The waterproof throw is gone, and he’s laying on clean, dry sheets. Red blinks up at the ceiling, his vision gone blurry. His face is wet. He’s shaking like he has a fever, his bones rattling.

The mattress dips as Edge sits down beside him. Which means he got up at some point. There’s a juicebox in his hands. Red’s throat feels thoroughly fucked as he rasps, faintly accusatory, "You left.”

“Only as far as the desk to get some supplies,” Edge says. He offers Red the juicebox. When Red just stares at it stupidly, Edge sets it down on the nightstand and rests his hand on Red's sternum, a steadying weight.

Red blinks again, and more of that wetness rolls down his face. He's crying. He doesn't know why he's crying.

"I liked it," he tells Edge so he doesn't get the wrong idea.

"As did I," Edge says.

"I'm fine," Red says. It doesn't stop the shaking or the steady leaking of his eyes. He feels amazing. A little cold, aside from the hot warning throb of his foramen, but good. There's no reason to fucking _leak_. He swallows. "Got nothin' to do with you."

"I know," Edge says, gentler.

He hesitates, then cradles Red's face in his hands, wiping away tears with his thumbs. It's not like they aren't replaced with more, there's no need for this schmoopy bullshit, but when Edge starts to pull away Red makes a very quiet sound of complaint that stops him.

"You're a mess," Edge says. He looks satisfied but not necessarily happy about the cost.

"Don't start with the guilt shit or I'll break your kneecaps," Red warns, which probably loses some of its effectiveness when the words are all fuzzy on the edges and he's still leaking out the eyeholes.

"Truly, I live in terror of your wrath," Edge says, giving him that faint ghost of a smile. He seems to give up on drying Red's tears as a lost cause and just weirdly holds Red's face between his hands. His hands are warm. It’s kinda nice. "You should drink something."

Red closes his eyes so the tears don’t keep welling up and so he doesn't see that expression on Edge's face. Voila: problem solved. But once his eyes are closed, another problem presents himself. He's crashing. He mumbles, "Don’t wanna. Too fucking tired for your bullshit."

It's maybe a little petulant, but Edge doesn't tell him so. He finally lets go of Red's face and sits back. A blanket drops over Red, its slight weight bearing him down into the mattress like it's made out of lead.

“Sleep a while, then,” Edge says, fussing with the blanket so it covers Red’s shoulder. “Though I doubt you’ll be any more amenable to my bullshit later.”

When he starts to pull away, Red clumsily grabs his wrist. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Edge says after a moment of startled silence, unresisting in Red’s desperate grip. A promise. “Just getting my phone off the nightstand.”

“Mkay,” Red says. He can grudgingly accept that. He’s fine; his tears are just a stupid bodily reaction like sweating or sneezing, the result of too many endorphins all at once. He just wants Edge where Red can keep an eye on him. That ain’t a crime. Probably.

Edge gently disentangles himself, and Red lets him. The bed rocks as Edge moves to sit against the headboard, the length of his outstretched leg resting against Red’s right side so Red’ll know even in his sleep that Edge is still there. Red fumbles out a hand, finds Edge's fibula, and curls his fingers around it so Edge doesn't wander off and try to rescue kittens from a tree or something.

They’re on the surface now. Things have changed. Gil is long dead, not that he was big fucking deal anyway, and their enemies are behind a locked door to another universe. Soon, Edge’ll feed him without worrying where their next meal will come from or when they’ll be attacked. Sans’ll come over, and Red’ll curl around him as carefully as he can to avoid putting the hurt on his sacrum. They’ll bitch at each other, Edge will watch with indulgent approval, and things will be normal. By their standards, anyway, and nobody else’s opinion fucking matters.

For now, Red lays still with his eyes closed, not quite awake, not quite asleep. He's comfortable if he doesn't move. He listens to his brother breathe, and his shaking quiets. On the other side of it, there's a weird kind of peace. He can't hold onto that forever, but he can hold onto it for now. That suits him fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: a flashback to a teenage Edge pretending to solicit Gil, an adult, for sex with the intent to kill him when his guard is down; references to Red's bad times with Gil, which involved extremely dubious consent, electrostim, medical play and humiliation; reference to Red doing sex work at 16 with a client of unknown age, including being choked; a consensual electrostim scene with Edge that's complicated by the fact that it was used to hurt Red in the past; Red ends up a crying and vulnerable wreck because hey, overwhelming catharsis delivered so lovingly by Edge that Red has a hard time dealing with it.


End file.
